The Plantagenet Vendetta (22 page)

The library of Keble College is situated on the opposite side of the quad and is similar in style and stature to the chapel. Thomas followed Wilson through the double doors into an elegant Victorian reading room rich in hardback books, wooden panels and stained-glass windows.

“The Sons of York don’t fall into the usual category of history – I know of many in the profession who would not regard them as being historical at all. To expose oneself to their follies invites criticism – particularly from other scholars.”

“You mean like the s-search for the Loch Ness monster?”

“More like the man in the iron mask,” Wilson replied. “Unlike the legend of Nessie, there is a general acceptance that the Sons of York were real, but the sources I mentioned never gave enough information to allow any clue as to who their members were.

“Of course, these days, since the invention of historical method, any author with a brain cell has connected them with everything from the Holy Grail to the Pied Piper to the reason that a particular tower in Pisa is slightly off balance. In many ways, the search for their true identities is a bit like a search for the Grail – in my experience, it can certainly be argued that there are as many different Sons of York as there are hunters for them.”

Themselves aside, the library was deserted apart from one young blonde woman who was standing on a stepladder, stacking books.

“I say, Dr Alcock isn’t about today, is he?”

The question seemed to activate the woman’s hyperactive setting. “No,” she replied, nearly dropping a book. “The archivist is currently away.”

“Pity. Oh well, not to worry, you don’t mind if I help myself, do you?”

“Access to the manuscripts is usually by prior appointment only,” the woman replied.

“I am familiar with the protocol; I’ve only worked here for forty years. If the old boy asks, just tell him that Paddy Wilson was showing an old student around.”

“Paddy Wil–?”

“That’s right. Professor Emeritus of Keble College Patrick Wilson, former tutorial fellow of medieval history. He’ll know the person you mean. Thanks so much for your assistance – good day.”

Ten minutes later, Thomas was sitting alone at a table in the more modern reading room on the floor below. Wilson had disappeared since they had entered, and when he returned, he carried a small manuscript.

“Right,” Wilson said, taking a seat. “Let’s see what you make of this.”

Thomas investigated the manuscript. “Richard III,” he said, examining the title, “John Paston,” he said of the author, “MDIX.”

“That’s 1509 in the modern tongue.”

Thomas looked up at his former personal tutor. “I know.”

“You’d be amazed how many wouldn’t.”

Thomas returned his attention to the manuscript. “This seems in rather good condition for 1509.”

“That’s because this copy was first printed in 1735. Also notice that it is written in English.”

Thomas grinned as he caught the rebuke. The print was usual for 1700s – and slightly messy.

“What about it?”

“You are familiar with the Paston letters?”

“I’ve heard of them, but wouldn’t say f-familiar.”

The retired professor shook his head. “One of the best and rarest historical keepsakes to have survived the Middle Ages,” he began. “The Paston letters deal with all sorts of things that happened between about 1422 and 1509. The family themselves were prominent gentry in the Norfolk area up until the mid-18th century. Upon the death of one William Paston, this large collection of letters and documents found its way into the hands of one particularly capable antiquary and over the next hundred or so years was published in six volumes – at least two of which found their way into the hands of one of your ancestors, George III.”

“What sort of letters?”

“The content ranged from personal letters between members of the family, legal records, and other important observations of local life. Of particular interest was the correspondence of John Paston to various acquaintances regarding the marriage of Richard III and Anne Neville. Interestingly, the family were also the original owners of the oldest surviving portrait of Richard III.”

Thomas digested the information. “And one of them wrote a biography of Richard III?”

“Unfortunately the original has never been found. The date on the cover claims 16th-century pedigree. However, the oldest surviving version is the one in front of you.”

“You d-doubt its authenticity?”

“I doubt nothing – the subject has never interested me.”

“So it c-could be genuine?”

“Over the years, all of the letters have been the subject of intense scrutiny. On at least one occasion, every single one of them has temporarily disappeared.”

“But they were found?”

“Each edition has an original source, if that’s what you mean. It’s possible, of course, there were others that did not survive.”

Thomas scanned the content, taking in practically nothing. “What of this?”

“This copy I came across about ten years or so ago – originally it had been in the Magdalen library along with many of the original letters, and for some reason it had never been catalogued. Most of the letters are housed in the British Library, though some are either at Magdalen or in the Bodley. I actually found this one myself; it was in the box along with several other works from the Victorian era. From what I could gather, most were bequests from friends of our great founder.”

“You don’t know who?”

“They were credited among the possessions of the Reverend Henry Liddon – I assume you’ve heard of him?”

The prince laughed. “Isn’t the quad outside named after him?”

“There’s no doubting the man was a genius.”

“What has this to do with the Sons of York?”

“Nothing – at least in the literal sense. However, some of the content here is, shall we say, different.”

“Can you elaborate?”

“According to the known sources, Richard III married once: Anne Neville on 12 July 1472. Together, they had one son, Edward of Middleham, who died in 1484. Had he survived, he would have been heir to the throne after Bosworth and a direct rival to the Tudors. Richard is also accepted as having sired at least two bastards – one John of Gloucester, and another Katherine Plantagenet.”

“I’m familiar with the story.”

“I’ve no doubt you are. However, according to Sir John Paston, Richard sired at least three more, most of who are completely unverifiable. The most famous was the story of the bricklayer from Eastwell in Kent – I suppose you’ve heard of that one?”

The prince nodded. He’d heard the tale of an illegitimate son of Richard III who went on to become a bricklayer.

“But even more fascinating,” Wilson continued, “is the claim that Richard entered a marriage contract before Anne Neville, later annulled by the church. According to the author, while Richard and his brother were banished to the Low Countries, he married a Flemish girl in 1470 and had a son named Perkin.”

Thomas looked up, his mouth now a smile. “Perkin?”

“Indeed. He also goes on to suggest that the poor woman died in childbirth – so two years before Richard married Anne Neville.”

The story seemed farfetched. “What of the boy?” Thomas asked.

“Exactly what you would expect: that the boy later came on the scene in England and many other countries in Europe, pretending to be the heir to the throne of England.”

“Warbeck?” Thomas asked.

“The very same.”

The prince smiled. He was familiar with the historical Perkin Warbeck, an alleged imposter who began an uprising in the 1490s against Henry VII.

“Is this the only source?”

“There are possibly more copies, but certainly this is the only manuscript I’ve ever come across.”

“No register of births? Or death?”

Wilson shook his head.

“H-how about a grave?”

Wilson laughed. “What do you think?”

Thomas thought it was a pointless question.

“No other contemporary document speaks of it.”

“How about the later ones?” Thomas asked.

“Would you like history or conjecture?”

“H-how can you tell the difference?”

“You can’t – that’s precisely what makes the historian’s job so damn difficult.”

“In that case, g-give me your best guess.”

The former professor looked over his shoulder, checking they were still alone. “The document you have just seen, though it cannot be dated to 1509, can at least be dated to before 1712. A local historian from the village of Shipsey in Yorkshire wrote his own account and claimed to have seen Paston’s original book.”

“William Stuart Lee.”

“Ah, you clearly have heard of him.”

“Like I said, I read the book,” he stuttered.

“All of it?”

Thomas grinned awkwardly. “I also read one from the 1900s. Both made reference to something called the Ravensfield Chronicle. That was the only one that m-my uncle didn’t have.”

“You’re not alone there. Even the British Library and the Bodleian have nothing, which is particularly strange because Bodley once had it catalogued.”

The prince was astounded. “You’re quite sure?”

He instantly regretted asking the question.

“You are most welcome to try.”

“Have you s-seen it yourself?”

“No. But there was another author who apparently did.”

“George Manning.”

“I say, Tom, you have done your homework.”

“Like I say, I’ve scanned two books; sadly they didn’t tell me very much. What did he know?”

The professor shrugged. “I don’t know – the poor chap died young.”

“How?”

“I haven’t the foggiest…” The professor detected urgency in the prince’s voice. “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”

“Two members of the Cabinet have recently turned up dead.”

“Surely that was a car accident.”

“Come on, Patrick, your intelligence is not limited to history. The men were blown up.”

“Blown up?”

Thomas nodded. “Scotland Yard then apprehended a suspect – a Dominican friar, disturbing the peace, of all things. Under interrogation he c-claimed responsibility for the d-deaths of Trenton and Bates. Claimed he was acting on the orders of the Sons of York.”

“Have you met him?”

“Yes.”

“What was he like?”

“Mad as a hatter.”

The man laughed.

“This is no joke, Patrick.” The prince lowered his voice. “He also claimed involvement in the death of my grandfather. And to beware the Sons of York.”

For several seconds Wilson said nothing. At the top of the stairs, the sound of the blonde woman wheeling her trolley informed them of her present location.

Thomas proceeded to tell his former personal tutor about the events at Middleham.

“What happened to him?” Wilson asked after a while.

“Who?”

“The man you shot.”

“Died during the night.”

The historian placed his hand to his face. “You didn’t interrogate him?”

“The man was in no fit state.”

“Jesus, Tom.”

Silence lasted several seconds.

“And the butler was also killed?”

The prince nodded. “Our only chance is to t-trace the phone numbers.”

“Where are you staying at the moment?”

“No one place.”

“Come with me – I think I know someone who might be able to help you.”

31

Jen had left the Hog by 10am, heading in the direction of the church.

The first mission of the day was to inspect the burial registers, which she assumed were kept at the presbytery. On the way, she had intended to pay another visit to the Plantagenet monument located at the far end of the graveyard amongst the shrubbery, but she decided against it because of the weather. The downpour had started at about 5:30am – she knew that because it had awakened her. Nevertheless, the signs for the rest of the day were better. The storm had passed, the black clouds replaced by consistent sunshine.

She would look again when the ground had dried.

The presbytery was located about two hundred metres to the left of the main church, in the grounds of the former priory. The present building was about three hundred years old and built on the former lodgings of the old priors. A red brick wall circled the grounds, intercepted by a large gate.

Jen raised the handle to open the gate, and walked along the pathway to the front door. A red Vauxhall Corsa was parked on the drive, presumably belonging to Father Martin.

The priest answered almost immediately. “Ah, Miss Farrelly.”

“Sorry to bother you on a Wednesday, Father. I was wondering if it would be possible for me to see the burial records for St Michael’s?”

The priest barely batted an eyelid. “Okay. Please come in.”

The interior was dated, particularly the walls. Despite the warmth of the otherwise pleasant day, the building had a certain coldness to it. It was the windows that did it. The single panes of glass and the dilapidated wooden surrounds were a depressing combination.

Father Martin led her up the creaky stairs and into a small room located directly in front of her. The room was cluttered, containing a photocopier, several pieces of paper, a desk with a twenty-year-old PC on it, and several filing cabinets.

The priest opened one of the cabinets and handed Jen a brown leather folder. The item was old, but she guessed not old enough.

“This is everything?”

“Everything from 1973 onwards.”

“Is there any record of the earlier stuff?”

The priest returned to the drawers and removed a further three folders. “The oldest goes back to 1879.”

The answer was disappointing. “Is there nothing older still?”

“1879 was the year of the church’s reconsecration.”

“Excuse me?”

“Between the years 1540 and 1878, St Michael’s was under the authority of the Church of England.”

“The Church of England?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I thought St Michael’s had always been Catholic.”

“Well, no. It started Catholic, of course. But its ownership changed hands following the Dissolution. It was briefly Catholic again during the reign of Mary I, but Protestant again in 1559.”

“But it’s Catholic now?”

“Yes, the church was bought from the Church of England following the Emancipation Act.”

“Why was it sold?”

“We’ve always had a large Catholic following in Yorkshire. Despite the Reformation, there have always been more Catholics in Wootton than Protestants.”

That sounded unlikely. “What happened to them before 1879? Where did they worship?”

“Ah, that’s an interesting question. You are familiar with Wootton Court?”

The large house up the road. “That’s where Lord Jeffries lives, right?”

“Yes, that’s right. Inside the house is a chapel – for three centuries it was the scene of Catholic worship, initially clandestine.”

The priest’s facial expression changed. “What’s with the interest? If you don’t mind my asking?”

“Nothing, really, it’s just my job to research the local community – and local history has always been a passion of mine.”

“Mine too,” he said with a sombre smile. “Anyway, let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Jen took a seat at the desk. “Oh, Father.”

The priest returned to the room.

“Where were the local Catholics buried before 1879?”

“Most of them are buried here,” he replied. “Though the ceremony would have been Protestant.”

“Would the deaths have been registered?”

“Of course. But the registers would have been moved to Bishopton.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s about four miles away.”

“Thank you, Father.”